


The Firmament In September

by maximum_overboner



Series: The Exchange [7]
Category: Undertale (Video Game)
Genre: Angst, Babybones, Comedy, Fluff, Gen, gen - Freeform, mentions of child abuse, papyrus has a shitty teenage goth phase, sans and papyrus love each other very much, sans doesn't deserve this, tw: alcohol
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-11-20
Updated: 2016-11-20
Packaged: 2018-09-01 01:14:07
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 10,992
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/8601421
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/maximum_overboner/pseuds/maximum_overboner
Summary: A series of moments from Sans and Papyrus’ lives, from Papyrus’ infancy, stretching until their adulthood. They aren’t battered, or broken. Just a little dented, is all.





	

**Author's Note:**

> a part is set after the first fic in this series, but you don’t need to read it, it’ll just help. warning for references to child abuse. shit’s grim yo

The Underground was a big place. Not as big as the surface, certainly, but to a child its massive rock ceilings and side-streets stretched on forever; a maze of paths and sub-paths that connected, meandered, then splintered off into nothing. Concrete petering out to rock, and then, to gravel, before you hit the stone-walls and were forced back inwards to the heaving capital, swarming with people. The most precious commodity of them all, above food, was space. And there was precious little of it. And the places that were left were generally too squalid to be inhabited for too long.  

Sans was holed up in the doorway of a disused shop, his clothes dirty and his bones cracked, his vision blurred and his palms shaking, his ribs aching and his legs quivering, and, most importantly, clutching a screaming infant that didn’t quite understand the concept of ‘laying low.’

“shut up.”

It squawked. Probably hungry, or something. Join the line, brat.

_“shut up.”_

And still, it screeched, while the rain pelted down around them, cold and stinging, small impacts on fresh ones. Sans felt two of his teeth squirm when he spoke, moving his mouth painfully to form the syllables, magic almost entirely expended in the dash.

_“please.”_

Sans sighed, setting the writhing little lump on a dry part of the concrete beside him, taking care not to drop him. Why did he run away with the baby? He didn’t know how to look after a baby! And God, the noise it made, unearthly and piercing, _shrill_. Sans took the time to nurse his wounds, and to settle his chest, feeling sick.

Tentatively, he leaned to the left, and felt a brutal, splitting pain, and he righted himself at once. Something was wrong with his ribs. Broken? Missing? Perhaps one had fallen out when he was running? He poked at it, the jolt forcing his mouth open and a warbling, bitter cry from his mouth. No, no, still there, then. Though perhaps it would feel better if it was gone? Like the tooth he had lost months ago, and those that sat loose now. Twisting and wrenching, until they would come out with a satisfying ‘pop’ and he could waddle on pain-free. He was not sure.

God, he took the baby. He took the stupid, smelly, screaming _baby_. He could have carried twice the food if he had left this thing, rather than the single loaf of stale bread he was stuck with.

His expression softened when he looked at it, before it soured once more. He kicked his foot against the ground.

“stupid kid…”

Tiny, desperately grasping hands, and a small, scrunched face, the features of which mirrored Sans’ own. Though its cheekbones appeared to be more prominent, like hill-bumps. Taken right from ma, then.

Sans struck that fact from his mind, small hands flat against the concrete. You were supposed to hold babies, he was sure. You were supposed to hold them, and not drop them. It’s what people did in magazines, and those VHS tapes he would watch time and time again, the company that would lull him to sleep.

Good God. It was so small. It was so comically, uselessly small. Get a job, baby.

“why you gotta scream so much?”

So weak, and frail. Most Monsters could at least take care of themselves right after birth, they at least had the barest survival instincts. Rotten, useless little–

Sans, once again, struck that fact from his mind, making a point to cast off what he had become accustomed to.

“’papyrus’, huh?”

The wailing had abated to a long, creaking groan that, if anything, was more unpleasant to listen to. Sans felt a familiar weakness in his bones, and opened the bread with his free hand, clutching Papyrus to his chest.

“yeah, me too.”

Sans dragged a slice from the bag, the rough surface briefly scuffing against the concrete, before snapping it off in his mouth and swallowing it with only a few chews to ease the passage. Finally, he grunted with relief, slowly scraping his feet to and fro against the hard concrete in front of him, something fun and rhythmic to cut through the mess of his thoughts, a small piece of play.

“’m sans.”

Sans snapped off a smaller chunk of bread, about the size of a thumbnail, before slowly pushing it in Papyrus’ toothless maw. At once, it was spat out, and Sans felt irritation bubble in his tummy.

“c’mon."

Sans picked it up once again, before shoving the sodden bread back in, where it was once again spat out, tumbling in a fountain of drivel.

“if you’re hungry,” Sans stated with innocent plainness, “you gotta eat.”

He poked the bread back in, before it fell out once again, the baby screaming. Sans sighed, tearing off another chunk and crunching it between his teeth, taking care not to disturb the loose ones.

Papyrus squawked, baring his toothless maw in a bid for attention.

… Oh. Oh, that was why he couldn’t eat the bread. He couldn’t chew it.

Sans squashed a piece of brittle bread until it crumbled in his fingers, before poking some into Papyrus’ mouth. It fell out, uselessly, though Papyrus’ wailing had died down to a manageable din, instead of the soul rending cacophony he had been so relentless in putting out. Sans continued methodically chewing at his own, slowly working at it, breaking it down, further and further until its sharpness no longer gouged him. Curiously, Sans scraped some of the pulp from his mouth, and presented it to Papyrus, who suckled as if nursing, eyes shut and body still.

Finally, quiet.

“oh. so that’s how y’eat, huh.”

Papyrus began to wriggle against the cold of the concrete, every minor inconvenience a massive upheaval in his life, and so Sans picked him up, both to soothe him, and to make the process of feeding him easier. There was a weight to Papyrus. The rain thudded inches away from Sans, moisture clinging to his face, to his soaked jacket. This place would be their home for the night, damp and freezing, and if anyone tried to cause trouble Sans now knew that throwing his magic around and bolting worked.

Sans mashed the stale loaf between his cliff-edge teeth; crooked and jagged and almost impossible to speak with, before scraping it out on his fingers with no grace and gently pressing it into Papyrus’ mouth, his chewing done for him. Papyrus, dutifully, would nurse on it, his hunger on its way to being quashed, tiny hands bracing clumsily to the side of Sans’ palm. Sans tentatively used his magic to speak, to spare him the agony of moving his mouth unless necessary, though he cowed reflexively, for only a moment.

“you’re cute.”

Papyrus took in the food, rhythmically sucking in instinct, even when out of bread, gargling with disdain until more was given to him.

Compelled by an feeling he couldn’t yet place, Sans peeled off his jacket with one hand, setting the brick-like loaf aside, before moving to lay Papyrus on it, leaving him with only a flimsy, torn shirt on his bones, and some thin pants he had long since outgrown. He continued to eat, both for himself, and for his brother, alternating between swallowing, and gently peeping the food into Papyrus’ maw as if he were feeding a wood chipper.

_“pappy.”_

                                                             

* * *

It was an overcast day, judging from the cracks in the mountain, that Papyrus would have to squint exceptionally hard to see, standing on his tippy-toes. The air was muggy, and damp with humidity; the sort of day that looked cold when you were looking at it from inside, and only when you would stride out, layered like a puff pastry, would you realise your mistake.

Papyrus waited quietly outside, like he always did, looking at his feet. Swaying gently back and forth. Suddenly, he heard the heavy thud of sprinting, and turned to see Sans bolting towards him, one half of him weighed down with a torn garbage bag, clutched at the frayed ends.

“SANS!”

Sans threw him over his shoulder while Papyrus cackled with delight, happy to be playing, before jostling painfully against the bulk of it as Sans sprinted, barely-there sneakers screeching against the tarmac.

“YOU’RE HURTING ME!”

Sans said nothing, pressing Papyrus deeper into his shoulder, until his legs jostled against the impact of every footstep.

“OW OW _OW OW!”_

Again, Sans said nothing. He didn’t know what the repercussions for theft was. He had never been caught.

“W-WHERE– ARE– WE– GOING–?”

“home,” he huffed, bag in one sweaty hand, Papyrus shaking on the other, being hauled like a sack of potatoes. Papyrus saw men, two of them, pursuing. Grown-ups. Moving almost as fast as Sans was. When had they played tag with other people? Judging from the speed of them, they were certainly going to win. 

“ARE–WE–PLAYING–?”

“yeah,” Sans wheezed back, focusing on keeping his legs moving. He had expended a good portion of his magic throwing the men back when they had tried to pick him up in the store, as he haphazardly stuffed tins into the garbage bag, before running out. It would just be a case of running as close to home as possible, using one of his trusty ‘shortcuts’, and they would be safe and fed.

Papyrus was bigger than he used to be. Four years old. Getting to be a little chubby, too, while Sans’ bones were the slivers they always were; frail, and quick to tire.

Sans could no longer carry both, as he always had, Papyrus on one arm, food in the other. And home was still a sprint away.

Sans felt his legs wobble, and stumbled once, then twice, garbage bag dragging along the concrete as he tore through side-streets, the voices of the men behind him growing in volume, and anger. He felt one of them slice the air behind him with a grab that barely missed.

Sans could leave Papyrus, and take care of himself. Sans could put him down, say they were playing hide and seek, and Papyrus would blindly believe him, and wait in the same spot until Sans came back. Earnest, and trusting, and expectant. Sans could unshackle himself, and eat twice the food, and sleep for twice as long, and never need to worry about anyone else–

Sans dropped the garbage bag and accelerated, now unburdened with the weight of the tin cans, gripping Papyrus with both hands as tightly as he could, left now with only the two tins that would fit in his oversized jacket, that bashed against his ribs with every swing of his legs as if he were being beaten. He heard the men shout at him, before they slowly faded back, their stock secured, and unwilling to chase after some thieving brat. Sans’ vision swam, and his feet hurt, kicking the concrete with every stride, until finally, he came upon a familiar alley.

“close– your eyes–” he wheezed.

Papyrus scrunched his face, and with a whoosh of crackling air, they were inside. Sans was on all fours, swaying back and forth, retching, gasps tumbling from his throat as the weight of his slightness pressed down on him. Papyrus, not understanding, was thoroughly amused.

“AGAIN, AGAIN!”

Sans gently shook a ‘no’, laughing darkly, balefully. It was only through luck they had found a place to live. Though it could hardly be considered true living, there was no hot water, or electrify, or heat. There was a roach problem. There was a rodent problem. They couldn’t keep books for long, as small worms would eat out the pages, and writhe in a little mocking dance. It was the husk of the abandoned shop he had hid in the doorway of four years ago, where Sans had spent his time wishing and wishing and wishing he could get inside until, to his astonishment, he somehow had, flitting through the barred door as if it was an apparition. And for that, he was thankful, as he had learned that being out in the open was not a good idea. But God almighty, was it tiring.  

Sweat dripped from his skull as Sans collected himself, face pressed to the cool, gritty surface of the bare floor, that sent a now-pleasant chill down his spine. Papyrus was in front of him, wrapped in a big puffy jacket that Sans had purchased with his last pay packet; a combination of savings from the dishwashing job, sweeping, and scrubbing. A significant dent in his deposit for a ‘legitimate’ home, as legitimate as a property being rented to children could ever be. But he would build it back up. Sans had time.

Sans reached into his pockets, while Papyrus eagerly fumbled at his hands, ready for his meal. 

Sans examined the first tin, the only opportunity he had to do so as he had stuffed them into the bag in a blind rush. Damn. He usually managed to pick up a half-dozen, at least, he would need to hit another shop tomorrow.

… There was a picture of a dog on it. This was dog food. Food made of dogs, he could maybe tolerate, but this, he would not.  

Papyrus was bursting with excitement in front of him, stumpy legs padding against the ground.

“… WE COULD EAT THE–”

“we’re not eatin’ dog food.”

Sans checked the other tin, feeling a sinking, gnawing feeling in his ribs. To his elation, it was tinned, sweet peaches. Sans sighed in relief, pulling his jacket tighter around himself as his breath fogged the air, while Papyrus plonked himself down in front of him, leaning forward, legs askew. Sans held the tin of dogfood in his hands, speaking to keep their spirits high.

“we can trade this off tomorrow, there must be a dog willin’ to take ‘em. and i can go check the dump again, word is, there’s a stack of busted microwaves. if i get enough of ‘em, chances are, i can probably try and get one workin’. y’know what that means?”

“YEAH!”

“what’s it mean, then?”

“WE’LL… UM. WE’LL–”

“if i get some electricity in this dump we can get hot meals whenever, instead of ‘when we find stuff to burn’.”

“THAT WAS WHAT I WAS GOING TO SAY I WAS GOING TO SAY THAT.”  

Sans laughed, his voice cracking a tad, before settling back into his high, boyish pitch. He held the peaches in his hand, feeling the weight, his hand fitting snugly into the crooks, the dents. He could almost smell them. There were two ways this could play out, they could split the peaches and both be hungry, or one of them could eat until they were full. It always fell back to rock paper scissors, always, a diligent ritual Sans would perform with thudding resignation, whilst Papyrus was happy just to play, unaware of its implications, of what was at stake. To him, it was a small episode of scheduled fun, and he looked forward to them.  

“… but since there’s only one can, we gotta play the game. time for rock paper scissors–”

Papyrus held out his tiny fist, satisfied with his choice of weapon, yet still unsure of the rules. Sans couldn’t help but smile, in spite of the growing irritation in his stomach.

“jumpin’ the gun there.”

Papyrus waved his fist around, his arm difficult to see, so puffy that he could barely move.

“on the count of three.”

Sans took a deep breath, and he saw it turn to mist, and then, to nothing.

“one, two, three–”

Sans presented the flat of his palm, paper, whilst Papyrus had deigned in his wisdom to wave his clenched fist as hard as he could, eyes scrunched shut. Slowly, he opened them, looking to Sans’ hand. He had lost. It was Sans’ can of peaches, not his, and wet, glooping tears formed in the corners of his eyes. That wasn’t fair, he wanted to win, he wanted it, he wanted it!

With a weary, weary glint, Sans made a ‘v’ sign with his hands.

“paps, you won. congratulations.”

Papyrus’ face lit up, grabbing eagerly at the tin. His words were cloyed with youth, and he was sometimes hard to make out, but he was nothing if not garrulous.

“WOW SANS,” he said, small face filled with hope and genuine, idealistic, unknowing joy. “YOU’RE REALLY BAD AT THIS!”

“yeah,” Sans responded, voice cracking, “i guess you’re just too good at rock paper scissors, huh?”

Papyrus fumbled at the top of the can awkwardly with his mittens. Sans glanced to it. No ring-pull. Not that Papyrus would be able to use it anyway. It appeared the old fashioned way would need to suffice; Sans couldn’t pop it open with his magic or he risked destroying the whole thing.

“give it here.”

“BUT I WON IT!”

“i’m openin’ it, you’re gonna get your prize. it’ll all be _peachy_.”

Papyrus felt irritated, but didn’t quite understand why.

Sans opened his maw with a sickening crunch, setting loose his teeth. The inside of his mouth was a treacherous, carnivorous black, and Papyrus hated looking at it, yet could never avert his eyes when the opportunity arose, leaving him with the churning feeling that he was seeing something he should not be seeing. It made him feel odd. 

With a heaving snap, like that of tree bark under pressure, Sans wrenched shut his jaw upon the top of the tin, puncturing several small holes. With a prise, and a scrape of metal against bare teeth, the tin was open and his jaw was shut. He loathed doing that.

Papyrus shuffled, bobbing excitedly. Papyrus adored peaches. He had never eaten a fresh one, but would gorge on the sweetened fruits until he felt ill, and would drink the juice from the can if he were able. Sans would take the occasional swig as well, but would hand it back diligently. He had lost rock paper scissors, after all, and the peaches were forfeit, but Papyrus was a cool little dude and so allowed him the gracious luxury of the occasional sip.  

“whoa, whoa, pappy. mittens.”

Papyrus dunked his mitten in, sloshing a peach over the rim of the can, which Sans picked up at once. Papyrus then pulled it out, before sucking on his mitten, relaxing, enjoying the taste of the sweet fruit.

Sans picked the bulk of the grit out of his peach slice, looking it over appraisingly. It was covered in fine flecks, looking like a strawberry, dotted with seeds. Papyrus surveyed it, but didn’t say anything when Sans crammed it into his maw, hearing the grit break between his teeth, hearing him groan at the tantalising glimpse of a full meal. Sans sucked at his fingers until the flavour had vanished, then kept at it, just in case, while he watched Papyrus dunk his mitten in, suck out the moisture, then repeat the process.

“’re you gonna chow down, or are you happy just doin’ that for now?”

Papyrus looked at him blankly, still suckling on a mitten, chewing softly.

Sans sighed, parking himself down on the cold, hard concrete, settling down for some much needed rest.

“wake me if you need me.”

Papyrus nodded, his eyes lidded in comfort. He gently set the tin down on the ground, in halting motions, before lying down next to Sans.

“you wanna eat here?”

“YEAH!”

“heh,” Sans huffed, “lazybones.”

He pulled Papyrus into a hug, and slipped into unconsciousness. The thing that would put a little pin in his problems for a while.

Papyrus lay there, before digging into the bulk of his peaches. He didn’t like it when Sans slept. There was nobody to play with, which was the greatest possible tragedy that could befall him. To remedy this, he would pick one side of the room, usually the corner with the crack in it and the black, mottled spots that felt cold to the touch, and from there, he would walk to the other side, slowly, counting his steps, imagining vivid landscapes in the way only a child could. He liked to picture the places in the books Sans would read him. He could not understand some of the words, and he hadn’t grasped the concepts of linear plots; beginning, middles and ends, all in a cohesive narrative. Instead, he would sit still and patiently wait until Sans would describe something, and without warning Papyrus’ mind would latch onto it and he would want to hear it again, and again, until it was imprinted in his mind forever, that he could visit when he was alone. A lush, verdant field, with fluffy white clouds and a castle in the distance, the horizon sprinkled with tall, immeasurably foreboding trees. Parks, and slides, and colourful toys, the sort he would fawn over as they passed shop windows, that Sans would have to drag him away from. And he saw them most vividly when he walked.

Once he had polished off the tin, accidentally scraping his hand in the process (which he did not cry over, as he was in fact a big boy now), he went to his corner, set his sights on the other, and walked.

The cool air gently glided over his face and he could almost imagine the grassland, before it slipped into a park, with slides and swings, before that, too, left, and he was surrounded with snow in a large, wooded forest. And when he stopped, it vanished, so he turned on his heels, and walked yet again.

What was snow like? Was it hard? Or was it soft, like his jacket? The bunny in his book said that it was very cold, and yet, it looked warm, like a blanket. Did it move the grass out of the way, or simply lie on top of it? How deep could it go, and how long could it linger? Could he eat snow? He would eat snow. Papyrus had many questions. He would ask Sans to get them snow.

And so, Papyrus had padded the length of their barren home, with bare windows and the noise of foot traffic thumping from underneath, with Sans snoring gently to his side, tucked into himself to save warmth. He turned, and walked.

Papyrus would like to live in a castle, he thought. Like the one in his book, with the knights, and the dragon. The one with one hall, two kitchens, three bedrooms, four gardens–

Papyrus felt a heaving crack underfoot and, for a brief, panicked second, thought it had fallen off. He remained perfectly still, frozen, eyes locked forward as he took in every barren, hellish detail of the bare wall in front of him; every scrape, and every writhing insect that would skitter, before becoming brazen, the ones that would wriggle by Sans as he slept. His foot felt wet, and warm, and now, tingling and cold. The mass squeaked, crushed, squirmed, and now lay agonizingly still.  

“SANS,” he croaked, barely audible. Sans didn’t stir.

He hobbled forward, the squishing, squelching lump still stuck to his foot like sodden paper.

_“SANS!”_

Sans was still, huffing in his sleep, brows knit in irritation at the disturbance. Deep enough in sleep to still crave it, and to not be cognisant of the desperation in Papyrus’ tones.

Papyrus hit him in the shoulder, as hard as he could, tears tumbling loosely from his face.

“hmm– wha– you ok?”

Sans looked at him blearily, before his eyes slowly tumbled downward to the crushed rat, a thin trail of gore seeping from one end of the room to the other, and his breath left his chest.

“SANS,” Papyrus choked, sounding older than he was, gore pasted to his bare foot, bone intertwining with bone, and foreign, clinging flesh hanging like moss. His panglossian optimism cracked as he was hit with cold unfavourable reality far sooner than Sans had anticipated, and more pressingly, wanted. He hiccuped.

“I-I DON’T– WANT TO– LIVE HERE A-ANYMORE.”

He bawled, an unearthly, cacophonous wail, far different than his tantrums, and the noise pierced Sans like a knife to his eye socket.

 

* * *

 

Sans was a smart man; he had a real knack for books, and he considered himself as having a higher than average level of both common sense and street smarts, and yet, he couldn’t scramble an egg. They either came out too runny; barely cooked slime with thick curds, or like rubber, to be choked back out of laziness, and an unwillingness to use more eggs when this meal would not kill them. It shouldn’t have been that difficult. Papyrus could do it with no problems, why couldn’t he? And he couldn’t ask Papyrus to make his own birthday breakfast. He was lazy, but he wasn’t cruel. 

Sans smiled to himself, flipping the bacon and watching it squirm on the pan in a layer of oil, popping and sizzling, wafting the smell of cheap, fatty meat through their apartment. Ahh, fifteen. On the very cusp of adulthood; though, if you were to ask Papyrus, he was the single most mature person alive on the planet. Last year’s growth spurt hadn’t helped. There were marks on the doorframes, from where he kept bopping his skull, the paint slowly wearing thin. God love him, Sans thought, he looked like a flagpole. Sans mused on what his real height would be, if he had eaten as Papyrus had, before casting it from his mind.

Sans heard the tell-tale clack of hard feet on the floor, and turned to meet it–

Holy shit.

Papyrus adjusted his collar, one he had picked up second hand from a thrift store, slightly chewed and smelling of dog. His shirt, long and black, was framed nicely by his black pants, and the heaps of eyeliner he had applied to his sockets. It was hard to make out; rather than accentuating his eyes, it blurred them, making it appear as if they were constantly shimmering.

Sans stared, before shrugging. Sure. Why not.

“sup, pappy.”

“SANS!”

His voice hasn’t quite gotten there, yet. Shrill, and coarse, flecked with adolescent creaks.

“SANS, I’VE ASKED YOU NOT TO CALL ME THAT, THAT IS A NAME FOR SCREAMING BABIES AND I AM NOT A SCREAMING BABY, I AM A SHREIKING ADULT, AND I WOULD THANK YOU TO REMEMBER THE DIFFERENCE.”

“will do, pappy.”

“UGH!”

Papyrus thundered over to the kitchen chair, before slamming himself down in a fit of tumultuous hormones and angst.

“you headin’ out later?” Sans enquired, unruffled.

“MAYBE.”

“you want me to cut up some apples as a snack?”

Papyrus slammed his hand on the table, as if he were a judge with a gavel.

“NO! I’LL EAT THE WHOLE THING! I’LL EAT THE SEEDS AND SLOWLY DIE OF EXTREMELY GRADUAL CYANIDE POISONING LIKE _A GROWN MAN!”_

“but you still want me to pack you an apple?”

_“THANK YOU THAT WOULD BE ABSOLUTELY DELIGHTFUL!”_

Sans took the outburst with a raised brow, but said nothing. He tipped the eggs and bacon onto their plates, and gave the larger one to Papyrus.

Papyrus looked at his plate, clearly struggling with something, fingers tapping arrhythmically, the syncopation of someone that struggled to keep a beat.

“problem, birthday boy?”

Papyrus found his resolve.

“THANK YOU FOR THE EGGS,” he said, in a gentler, more sincere tone of voice.

“no problem,” Sans smiled back.

And like that, Papyrus’ voice was back to the scoffing, breathier tones of an exasperated teenager.  

“I MEAN, _I GUESS.”_

Sans rolled his eyes, before dipping his hand under the table, and pulling out a crisp, pink paper bag. Papyrus’ eyes lit up, but he quashed his enthusiasm, as adults were never happy ever.

“happy birthday, ya lampost.”

“ARE YOU MAKING FUN OF MY GARGANTUAN HEIGHT?”

“sorta. ‘s also cause you’re bright.”

God, no! A genuine, sweet comment! This day would test his resolve, he knew it.

Papyrus peered into the bag before pulling out a large envelope, and a smaller one. With a childlike glee, he opened the larger one. It was a card!

‘Sorry for your loss’ was hastily crossed out with black marker, and replaced with ‘happy birthday’. Papyrus glanced to it, then back to Sans, then back to it. Inside, there was a poem about the fleeting fragility of life, with delicate, peaceful pictures of skeletons, arranged in a dignified and tasteful way. Sans had hastily scribbled over the poem, wrote ‘old’ in the free space, doodled a birthday hat on one of the skeletons, and drew another one farting.

Papyrus loved Sans very much. But good God.

“d’you like your card?”

“YES,” he lied. “THE TOOTING SKELETON IS… IT’S VERY TASTEFUL.”

“god, you’re a bad liar.”  

Papyrus was still staring at the card, in total disbelief.

“i, uh… i’m gonna be real with you, i can’t remember goin’ in, or walkin’ out of that card shop. i remember just standin’ there. looking. i went too long without sleep.”

“DID YOU PICK IT BECAUSE OF THE SKELETONS–”

“i felt cosmic.”

“– OUT OF HABIT?”

“yeah.”

Papyrus set the card on the kitchen table, taking care not to damage it, to accidentally blunt the edges upon which it stood.

“happy birthday papyrus. look forward to the rest of ‘em.”

“I AM! WHEN I GET OLDER I CAN GO OUT, AND THROW HIP PICNICS AND BLOW ALL OF MY MONEY ON A SWEET SPORTS CAR.”

“how sweet?”

“DANGEROUSLY RADICAL.”  

“that hip?”

“A CHARIOT OF BODACIOUSNESS. I WILL NEED TO FIGHT OFF THE LUSTFUL BABES. WHICH I DO ANYWAY, ON ACCOUNT OF BEING PAPYRUS.”

Sans drank his coffee, waiting patiently for Papyrus to open the second envelope. It was warm, and excruciatingly sweet. Finally, Papyrus opened the envelope, and his act fell at once, like a weighted curtain.

“THIS IS TOO MUCH MONEY.”

“blow it on stupid shit.”

Papyrus looked at him, severe and firm.

“I CAN’T–”

Sans cut him off, expecting this.

“i mean, if you wanna, it’s your cash. first time with a little spendin’ money, right? go buy a buncha books, or go to a movie, or somethin’. buy ten thousand ladybugs and toss ‘em at passers by. have fun.”

Papyrus tapped his fingers together, his leg bobbing until there was a constant, ringing thud coming from under the table.

“BUT WHAT HAPPENS IF YOU NEED IT?”

“i won’t. planned it out, saved for a while. have fun with it. ‘s your cash.”

“BUT IT’S NOT, NOT REALLY. ISN’T IT BETTER TO HAVE IT ASIDE JUST IN CASE?”  

“no.”

“BUT–”

Sans swigged at his coffee, before setting it down again with a heavy sigh.

“you spend it on somethin’ for yourself,” Sans stated plainly, “or i’ll get somethin’ for you. and it’ll be really, _really_ dumb.”

Papyrus met his unwavering gaze, before folding meekly, pulling the envelope towards himself.

“THANK YOU.”

“it’s fine.”

Sans took the opportunity to start eating his eggs, while Papyrus stared at his feet and his long, awkward legs, feeling like a scolded child. At once, he lashed back, thudding his hands on the table, scooting his plate away to make his point. Papyrus had to lay his cards on the table. He was an adult now. He could make his own decisions, and stick to them. The mark of a mature person.

“SANS!”

“yeah?”

“I’M THINKING ABOUT GETTING INVOLVED IN UNDERAGE DRINKING. AND THEN MAYBE DOING A SEX AT SOMEONE.”

Papyrus heard Sans’ cutlery clatter against the table, as a pained noise crawled from his mouth. Finally, Sans had snapped! Papyrus’ rebellion was too much, and now he would have to fight against the full, unwavering voice of The Man.

… Oh. Oh, Sans was laughing.

“yeah, go for it,” he said, between breaths, “god knows i did that shit when i was fifteen. go ham. you want me to clear outta the house, just say, i don’t wanna be around when–”

Oh God, no, Papyrus didn’t actually want to do those things! Was it so wrong to want to rebel, but God, what on Earth could he rebel against? This was the worst thing that had ever happened to him. This was unfair! This was unfair to an extreme degree, this couldn’t be allowed!

_“ACTUALLY NO IT’S FINE I’LL JUST HAVE A JUICEBOX PLEASE.”_

Sans looked at him, his bluff successfully called, and with the biggest shit-eating grin pasted across his face. Papyrus felt his irritation grow at the sight, until he was whipped into a frothing, angst-ridden frenzy.

_“– AN ADULT JUICEBOX, AN– AN ALCOHOL– A BEER!”_

And again, Sans called his bluff, motioning casually to the fridge behind him.

“there’s a couple in the fridge. get me one too. there was a whole six pack last night but i got distracted watching bad reality tv and drank a few. some chick didn’t like her wedding dress so she went to the wedding dressed in garbage bags. they weren’t even the white ones, either.”

“YOU WATCH TOO MANY OF THOSE.”

“you say that as if you don’t hover by the door and watch ‘em anyway.”

Papyrus had been rumbled, and he flicked at his forehead as if he had a long, floppy fringe to show his distemper, scowling, his gut a torrid mixture of emotions; burgeoning sincerity clashing with a desperate need to break out. With a deep breath, and the bitter sting of regret, Papyrus plodded to the chair, retrieved the beers, plodded back and set them down on the table between them. Suddenly, an idea occurred to him.

“WE DON’T HAVE A BOTTLE OPENER, SO WE CAN’T–”

Without missing a beat Sans brought the metal cap to his teeth, before pulling it off with a scraping ‘pop’ that made Papyrus wince. Foam lidded the top, slopping over the table as Sans set it down.

“here ya go.”

“THAT CAN’T BE GOOD FOR YOUR TEETH.”

“probably not.”

Sans repeated the process, while Papyrus looked glumly at his own drink, until they were both ready.

“if you don’t wanna do it, don’t do it.”

Papyrus raised his head, just a little.

“… THEY DO THINGS LIKE THIS ON TV. IN BETWEEN BOUTS OF PATERNAL FISHING, AND SOFTBALL GAMES.”

‘Paternal’. That word stung.

Papyrus slipped his fingers around the bottle, tapping his fingers against it while Sans watched him.

“UM… CHEERS?”

“cheers. first drink’s a big deal.”

“FIRST _ILLEGAL_ DRINK,” he mumbled.

Sans rolled his eyes affectionately. “don’t get the rim caught in your retainer, i can’t get you a new one.”

“I WON’T GET THE RIM CAUGHT IN MY RETAINER, _GOD!”_

The rim caught in his retainer.

“OW!”

“told ya.”

Sans laughed lowly, while Papyrus, in an affronted frenzy, took a huge mouthful, held it, and swished it back and forth while Sans sipped at his. He winced before finally choking it down.

“SANS,” he said, solemnly.

“yeah?”

“THIS BEER TASTES LIKE PISS.”

Sans choked on his mouthful.

“where’d ya hear _that?_ ”

“IN A MAGAZINE. ALSO, WHAT IS A PISS?”

“if i told ya it would ruin the moment.”

The aftertaste finally kicked in; oddly savoury, almost leaving a thick film in his mouth, before it split to make way for more terrible. Sans was drinking away, barely acknowledging it, never mind tasting it, thinking of some pearls of wisdom to spout.

“don’t drink too much of the stuff, don’t use it to drown your sorrows, nothing like that. there’s not a lot of things as pathetic as… some dude that gets smashed all day to forget his problems. like, geeze dude."

Papyrus had to agree, even if his only experience with it had been with melodramatic soup operas, in which the countess had turned to drinking wine and posing miserably on her couch after accidentally killing her lover; Geraldo. That seemed like an easy enough situation to avoid. Papyrus didn’t even know any Geraldos.  

“i don’t go to bars that much,” Sans mused, “too depressing.”

“YOU GO SOMETIMES,” Papyrus pushed innocently, thrumming his fingers on the glass. Sans chuckled back, letting his voice take on a rare, coy tone.

“but, uh… c’mon, that ain’t for _drinks_.”

Papyrus stared back, completely oblivious.

“… FOOD?”

Sans gave him a long, lingering look back, until it was clear it wouldn’t sink in.

“… yeah.”

“I KNEW IT!”

Sans took another drink, sighing, while Papyrus choked back another mouthful, waiting optimistically for the ‘acquired’ part of the taste to kick in and make it good.

“papyrus…?”

“YES?”

Sans motioned to his clothes, some of the black fabric paint splotchy, and partially transparent. Some of it not even dry.

“the fuck?”

“OH. THE CLOTHES, AND THE… UNBEARABLE HIPNESS. I WANTED TO STRIKE OUT, AND… YOU KNOW. STICK IT TO THE MAN. YOU’RE A MAN.”

“i am.”

“CONSIDER YOURSELF STUCK AT.”

“i’ve never been stuck at so hard in my life.”

Papyrus ran his finger along the rim of the beer bottle, now no longer able to stomach it at all.

“I JUST… IT FELT LIKE THE RIGHT TIME TO DO _SOMETHING._ YOU’VE ALWAYS BEEN THE ONE TAKING CHARGE, AND DOING ALL THE LEGWORK, AND I JUST… THOUGHT THIS MIGHT MAKE YOU TAKE ME SERIOUSLY. EXERTING MY WILLPOWER AS AN ADULT! STANDING ON MY OWN TWO FEET. THAT SORT OF THING.”

Sans looked at him, before quirking a brow, the hubbub of the city there, but distant, given the location of their apartment.

“i respect you. cheap eyeliner or not, i respect you.”

“THERE’S NO POINT IN ME BOTHERING, IS THERE? YOU’VE DONE IT ALL ANYWAY. I HAVE NOTHING TO REBEL AGAINST. THERE’S NO POINT.”

Sans sat there, guilt prickling at his ribs, shifting. Stewing on the fact that his reassuring statements had apparently been anything but. An idea struck him.

“pap,” he sighed.

Sourly, Papyrus looked up, his sullenness anything but an act.

Putting on his very best authoritarian tone, Sans looked from under his brow, right into Papyrus’ soul. “you aren’t gonna dress like that in this house. you do, i disown you, and your shit gets kicked out. capiche?”

Papyrus brightened at once, his sunny demeanour cutting through his downcast appearance, knowing from the very bottom of his soul that that weren’t true.

“WOW, THANKS SANS!!”

The burst of enthusiasm stuck, and Sans smiled warmly upon seeing it, but felt a familiar sinking feeling when he saw a look of recollection split across Papyrus’ face.

“OOH! OOH! SPEAKING OF BIRTHDAYS, ANY LUCK REMEMBERING YOUR ONE?”

Sans shrugged, wanting to avoid the topic.

“OH, COME ON! IT’S SO HARD TO THROW YOU A PARTY, AND HARASS YOU WITH COLOURFUL BALLOONS AND CAKE. EVERY TIME I BRING IT UP IT’S ALWAYS, ‘OH IT’S NOT HAPPENED YET’, OR ‘OH, YOU JUST MISSED IT’. COME ON! IT WILL BE FUN!”

Sans shrugged harder this time, averting his eyes.

“THAT’S IT! THAT’S IT, I’M HAVING NO MORE OF YOUR CAKE-AVOIDANT SHENANIGANS.”

The eggs were cold, and the beer was slowly going warm. Sans’ voice wasn’t loud enough to dissuade him from bounding towards the door, and there was odd churning in Sans’ bones, like he was at sea.

“I’M GOING TO BUY YOU A BIRTHDAY CAKE. I OWE YOU A LOT OF THEM! I ONLY HOPE I CAN WALK IN A STRAIGHT LINE, AFTER MY MASSIVE BENDER.”

And before Sans could respond, the door was shut, and he was left alone, unsure of how he felt. With his empty beer, a half-full one, and two plates of undercooked eggs and overcooked bacon, with the resonating hum of the slammed door leaving him as well. Backed with the brutal sting of knowing Papyrus was wasting his money on the wrong sort of useless.

Sans took another swig, long and bitter, before thudding down the bottle.

 

* * *

 

It was a Friday night. It was two in the morning. And thus, it was time for a picnic. The air was cool; though not unpleasant, it was a briskness that heralded the very start of autumn. The leaves on the trees around the empty car park were just beginning to tinge with gold, and the bark was black against the deep, seeping cobalt of the night, and the orange glare of street-lamps. But that wasn’t what they were here to see.

Nearby, there was a park. A public park with grassland; excellent for playing football, or walking a dog. But beyond that, there was a hill, surrounded by smaller kopjes, and it gave you an excellent view of the sky on clear nights. This was a clear night. The first since Papyrus suggested they come here, and make an event of it.

Papyrus locked his car, huffing with satisfaction. Immaculate and red, and very much his. Papyrus set about unlocking the boot, gently prising it open, making sure his movements were clear, and measured, savouring it all. Smoothly running his fingers across the underside, pushing in the latch, allowing it to lift with ease, and surveying the basket full of food he had prepared, as well at the battered white telescope next to it. Gracelessly, Sans walked to him, sneakers thudding, before slouching on The Car.  

_“DON’T LEAN ON THE CAR, YOU’LL SCRATCH THE PAINT!”_

“what else am i gonna lean on,” Sans poked, “the air? i’ll fall, dude.”  

Papyrus grit his teeth, picking up the telescope by the base of the mouth and stuffing it into Sans’ hands, while Sans chuckled with the ease of a man that knew just what buttons to push.

“givin’ me the telescope? geeze, losin’ your arm’s made you lazy, huh?”

Papyrus, caught off-guard by the comment, laughed, and heard it hit the trees and echo back.

“YOU WERE THE ONE THAT SLEPT ALL THE WAY HERE!”

“sleepin’ at night. and i thought my wild child days were behind me.”

“YOU DON’T NEED TO DO IT! IT’S FOR SHOW. AN EXTRA. LIKE ONE OF THOSE FANCY HAIRCUTS FOR POODLES.”

“i’m happy with my poodle-haircut.”

“BOY, DID I NEVER THINK I WOULD HEAR THAT SENTENCE.”

Sans nodded to him, eyes heavy, itching at his neck.

“you got your picnic?”

Papyrus nodded in turn, shifting his weight from foot to foot giddily, the wicker making his digits itch. He had purchased a new shirt and jeans for the occasion, as nothing screamed fashion in his mind like a darkened field in the early hours of the morning.

“I DO. I SPENT FOUR HOURS MAKING SURE THE BASKET LOOKED PICNIC-Y, AND THEN ABOUT AN HOUR PREPARING THE FOOD.”

Papyrus gently shut the boot, double checked the top of his convertible, then locked it to make sure no mischievous ragamuffins made off with it, because he would give them a stern talking to, and perhaps consider breaking a leg in a show of disciplinary gentleness. Killing, he maintained and always would, was abhorrent. Slapping the shit out of someone for being an ass, less so. A take-away, from his time with Gaster.

“LET US MAKE HASTE!”

“i’m not gonna run.”

“LET US AMBLE IN THAT DIRECTION, MAYBE!”

“now you’re talkin’.”

And amble they did, though Papyrus’ massive stature dictated that his ‘ambling’ speed was the walking pace of an average person. Sans followed shortly behind, the movements dragging him out of his groggy state and back into something resembling wakefulness. The hard ‘thump thump’ of their feet against concrete fell away, to the sound of grass rustling as they went off the beaten path, bracing themselves against the cool night air. Papyrus looked back, slowing enough so that Sans could hear him with no issue.

“WHAT IF WE SCARE SOMEONE?”

“how d’you mean?”

“WELL, TAPPING INTO MY PAST AS A CUTTHROAT TEENAGE REBEL–”

“papyrus, that lasted two weeks and you cried every day because you dyed half your wardrobe black and didn’t know how to undo it.”

“– I KNOW THAT HIP TEENS LIKE TO CONGREGATE IN PARKS AT NIGHT, AND DRINK. IF YOU WERE A HUMAN, DRUNK, AND IN A DARK FIELD, WOULDN’T YOU BE SCARED IF YOU SAW TWO SKELETONS JIGGLING OVER THE HORIZON?”

“jiggling?”

Papyrus huffed, his demeanour haughty, turning away and increasing the pace of his strides.

“I KNOW WHAT I SAID.”

Sans quirked his brows but said nothing, panting, his grip on the telescope slipping under his sweat until he was hauling it with both hands.

The crunch of dry earth grew louder under their feet, backed only with the grass, the low wind, and Sans’ unfit huffs until finally, they were at the bottom of the hill. A five minute walk for a fit man, which meant it would take Papyrus two, and Sans ten. They began to climb, Papyrus making a point to lag, to let Sans keep pace.

“aren’t ya gonna rib me about being a short stack?” Sans teased, with no malice.

“I’M NOT CRUEL,” Papyrus said plainly, somberly.

Sans went quiet, his good mood dulled, forgetting that blunt jabs at even himself might seem callous. Then, gently, a noise encroached upon Papyrus, and he studied it with fascination.

Sans was counting quietly to himself, barely audible, murmuring out on the faintest consonants needed to place it as speech, before it seemed to slip into a clicking glossolalia. Papyrus left him to it, saving his concern for when they were at the top, losing himself in the murmured, hushed syllables, like a lullaby.

“one, two, three, four, five, six, seven, eight, nine, ten…”

They continued upwards, Sans’ quiet counting slowly growing breathier. Strained, until it was hard to make out at all. Papyrus slowed, then stopped.

“DO YOU NEED A BREAK?”

“nah,” Sans wheezed. “haven’t taken a break before, won’t take one now.”

“YOUR ENTIRE LIFE HAS CONSISTED OF TAKING BREAKS. SOMETIMES, BREAKS IN BREAKS.”

“well,” Sans shrugged in response, sweat drenching his back, “guess i’m takin’ a break from takin’ breaks.”

He took a deep breath, before resuming.

“… sixty-one, sixty-two, sixty-three…”

Papyrus shrugged, slowing his gait further to walk alongside Sans, in case he did in fact need that break, or worse still, passed out. But he kept on, greyed sneakers squeaking against the grass, until he was crawling up the final few feet on his hands and knees, the steepest part, requiring climbing. Papyrus kept his grip steady, and suppressed his overwhelming urge to rub Sans’ back.

“four hundred ‘n… thirty… four hundred ‘n thirty one…”

They continued still, until they reached the summit; a flat, grassy hillock that protruded from the top of the far larger structure.

Sans lay flat on the grass, having finally ascended, while Papyrus climbed the trickier part of the incline with a few graceful, well-placed bounds, making it seem easy. He squatted down, setting the basket on the ground beside him, almost losing it in the total darkness of the night.

“ARE YOU ALRIGHT?”

Sans wheezed a response, while Papyrus fished in the basket, before handing him a bottle of water. He cracked the seal, chugged it, then sighed.

“I WOULDN’T HAVE MINDED CARRYING YOU UP–”

Sans shushed him at once, chest heaving, sitting up. He felt moisture on his bones, thin and watery, picking up condensation from the grass.

“haven’t been carried since i was a newborn.”

Sans chuckled darkly, motioning to feel at his ribs, as if they were fractured, as if his breaths were thin and whistling again.

“even… then…”

“I’VE CARRIED YOU A BUNCH OF TIMES!” Papyrus exclaimed, missing the point. “LIKE THAT TIME YOU TRIED RIDING A MATTRESS DOWN THE STAIRS AND KNOCKED YOURSELF OUT, OR WHEN YOU SPRAINED YOUR ANKLE, OR WHEN I CARRIED YOU HOME FROM GRILLBY’S AND SET OFF _THAT_ DEBACLE–”

Sans looked at him, and Papyrus finally caught on.

“… OH. OH, YOU WERE BEING POIGNANT.”

“yeah.”

“I THOUGHT YOU WERE BEING LITERAL.”

“nope.”

“DON’T MIND ME. POIGNANT AWAY!”

Sans laughed, earnestly.

“kinda hard to do it, now.”

“I DIDN’T MEAN TO QUASH YOUR MISERY. GO ON, TALK ABOUT IT! BROOD. BROOD LIKE A MOTHER HEN ON AN EGG.”

“nah,” he chuckled, flat and soaked with sweat, “i’m in too good a mood for it now. hey, can you pass me somethin’ out of the basket?”

Papyrus puffed with pride, opening with wicker flap, setting loose exquisite smells of delectable food. Dumplings, that he had learned to make last week. A pasta bake, seasoned to perfection, unhealthy in every conceivable fashion but a guilty pleasure for him. A thermos of coffee for them to split, with little sugar packets, so Papyrus could take his black, and Sans could take his coffee-esque sugar syrup. Breads, and honeys, and meats. A true feast.

And, to Papyrus’ dismay, a little bottle of ketchup he didn’t remember adding.

Sans pointed languidly to the little blue wrapping peeping out over the basket, shiny blue plastic glinting in the moonlight. Papyrus switched on his phone, setting the torch to ‘on’ and laying it flat, giving them some light. Sans put his hand on the telescope to his left, eager, but hungry. Papyrus looked to him in dismay.

“WE’RE ON THE SURFACE. AN ENTIRE PLANET’S WORTH OF CUISINE IS AVAILABLE TO US. THOUSANDS OF YEARS OF CULTURE. A PICNIC MADE BY ME, A MAN BEING TRAINED IN THE CULINARY ARTS. THE ARTS OF THE CULINARY. THAT I AM BEING PROFESSIONALLY TRAINED IN. AT A LEARNING INSTITUTION. AND YET, DESPITE THE ASTONISHING PLETHORA OF FOODS AVAILABLE, YOU HAVE DECIDED TO EAT KETCHUP ON PROCESSED WHITE BREAD.”

“yeah.”

“FANTASTIC; I JUST WANTED TO CHECK. WOULD YOU LIKE A DUMPLING?”

“will you get mad if i cover it in ketchup and enough salt to kill a human five times over?”

“EXTREMELY.”

“nah i’m good.”

Papyrus gave him the wrapped loaf and watched, with distant revulsion, as Sans slathered a single piece of bread in ketchup, then folded it, shoving it into his maw with a gurgling, satisfied sigh. Sans looked wistful, chewing away, looking into the distance.

“i wonder what the rest of ‘em get up to, sometimes. all the other monsters. like… you remember our weird neighbour, back when we were really young kids?”

“’STABBIN’ BARRY’?”

“nah, the one that stabbed that guy.”

“OHH, ‘SANE LARRY’!”

“yeah, him. what do you think he’s doing?”

“STABBING.”

“bad example.”

Papyrus rooted in the basket, before plucking out a chicken dumpling and taking a small bite, making sure to chew.

“THERE AREN’T THAT MANY MONSTERS, ARE THERE? GASTER SAID THERE WERE A LITTLE MORE THAN TWENTY-THOUSAND, BUT THERE ARE SEVEN BILLION HUMANS. I WONDER IF WE WILL EVER CATCH UP? IT WOULD BE NICE TO SEE A MONSTER ON EVERY STREET, RATHER THAN IN PASSING ONCE OR TWICE A DAY. THERE’S JUST NOT ENOUGH OF US.”

“ehh… i don’t think so. we live longer, sure, but makin’ a new monster’s so friggin’ difficult. with humans, you just gotta, like, worm in it there and nut and bam, you got a baby–”

“WOW WE DO NOT NEED TO GET THAT SPECIFIC, NOT WHEN I’M EATING!”

“– monsters… ‘s just more effort. harder to do on accident. i mean, how is a ghost gonna get a… i dunno, sentient cabbage monster pregnant?”

“WITH LOVE AND CARE, AND ROMANTIC SMOOCHES.”

“i was bein’ facetious, but that’s real cute. aw.”

Gaster. They had so casually brushed over the name, but it tugged on their feet, rooting them both in place uncomfortably. Sans was on it at once, to dispel the severity.

“hey, papyrus…”

Sans pointed to his bad eye, totally blind in it, the price he paid.

“whaddya call a blind deer?”

Papyrus sighed, his face contorted into a weary grimace, knowing the punchline.

_“NO-EYED-DEER.”_

“nah,” Sans said, matter-of-factly. “dead.”

Papyrus guffawed.

“GOD, THAT’S AWFUL!”

“nature is cruel, bro.”

“I THOUGHT IT WAS GOING TO BE A CUTE PUNCHLINE, THAT WASN’T CUTE AT ALL!”

“how the fuck is a blind deer gonna run away from… whatever hunts deer in a forest. ‘hilariously’, that’s a given, but it ain’t to safety.”

Papyrus scrunched his eyes shut as he laughed; a loud, shaking bark that gave way to wheezes.

“IT’S GOOD THAT YOU CAN LAUGH ABOUT THIS STUFF!”

“it’s how i deal with it,” Sans said. “ain’t for everyone, but it’s for me. i got more like that.”

“THEY CAN’T BE AS GRIM AS THAT, SURELY.”

Sans whistled lowly, backed with the gentle rustle of the grass, and Papyrus knew he had made a mistake as he saw a dark mirth bubble in Sans’ eyes.

“y’know, my name as a kid was ‘clickbait’.”

Papyrus braced himself.

“’cause i got a bunch of hits from middle aged assholes.”

Papyrus had not braced himself enough and he recoiled as if punched. Sans guffawed, slapping his knees.

_“OH MY GOD!”_

“yeah,” he choked out, sincere and airy, “that was a bad one.”

_“OH MY GOD, SANS.”_

“you can laugh, if you want.”

Papyrus had his hand clasped to his mouth, suppressing a horrified peal of laughter, before he expertly quashed it.

“I LIKE TO THINK I HAVE BETTER TASTE THAN THAT!”

“which is why you’re gigglin’ into your hand like a schoolgirl at prom?”

“IF THERE IS A HEAVEN, I THINK I JUST FORFIETED MY ENTRANCE TICKET.”

_“i got even worse–”_

_“BOY, HOW ABOUT THAT SPACE! PRETTY… SPACEY, I GUESS.”_

Sans took the hint, still laughing at his own joke, propping up the telescope and looking for something interesting in the night sky.

“’s a beautiful night.”

“WHEN IS IT NOT.”

“ah, found one. a planet.”

Sans removed himself from the telescope, allowing Papyrus to crouch down until he was almost in a squat, back twinging painfully. A large, red dot, with streaks across it, like marbling on a cake. How many planets were there again? Papyrus wasn’t sure he knew, his eyes glossed over when Sans would begin parading out numbers.

“WHAT ONE IS THAT?”

“mars.”

“HOW FAR AWAY IS IT?”

“give or take, about… thirty million miles, i think. can’t remember off the top of my head.”

Papyrus leaned back to look at Sans in a silent, crushing awe reserved entirely for space, before hurrying to look again. Numbers were one thing, numbers, backed with sights, were absurd.

“OH MY GOD. WHAT’S… WHAT’S UP THERE?”

“bunch’a dust, rock. that kinda stuff.”

“IS THERE ANYTHING ELSE UP THERE?”

“like what?”

“PEOPLE? DELICIOUS, SUCCULENT ANIMALS? A VEGETABLE, PERHAPS?”

Sans scratched at his head, not wanting to burst Papyrus’ bubble.

“the… chances of anythin’ comin’ from mars are a million to one.”

Papyrus frowned, disappointed, his building glee dampened just a tad. Sans prodded his shoulder, before pointing off in another direction.

“there’s pegasus. y’see it?”

The cartoon horse?

Papyrus squinted, seeing no such thing, but was cut off with a hushed gasp from Sans.

_“holy hell.”_

“WHAT IS IT.”

“next to it, that’s _andromeda._ ”

“HE SOUNDS NICE.”

Sans shook his head, his eyes fitting his static smile. With a childlike enthusiasm Papyrus could hardly believe.

“no– dude– shit, that’s _andromeda_. the constellation? that ‘v’, right there.”

Papyrus looked, and did not see a ‘v’. He saw stars, millions of them, but scattered like sand on concrete. If there was a discernible shape to them, he could not see it, but to point that out would puncture Sans’ vigour and slip him back into apathy.

“I SEE IT.”

“alright– look to the right, in the middle, y’see that huge blob?”

No. And– wait, no, there it was! Mottled, like a stain, but there, with soft edges that looked as if they were flaking away, like milk on a sheet.

“I SEE IT!”

“that’s the galaxy, dude. shit, i didn’t– i thought we’d see a couple’a stars or something, i didn’t think it was gonna be so clear…”

Sans went quiet.

_“fuck.”_

“AGREED.”

They stared, together, at the infinite expanse before them, that made Papyrus feel as if gravity would lose grip and let him tumble heedlessly into the void. As if his prone limbs were being held to the Earth by string, and he was exerting his weight upon them. He felt like jumping, to see how far he would drift.

“HOW… FAR AWAY IS THAT ONE?”

“two-point-three million light-years.”

“SO THAT’S THE FURTHEST?”

“it’s the nearest.”

Something finally clicked in Papyrus, that he had missed when he had examined the dry, number-filled textbooks that Sans would pour over in his free time, as if they were light reading. Like a cog slipping into place, letting the other parts tick and operate, setting his new-found curiosity in motion.

_“WOW.”_

A silence, with all of the cosmic wonder in the world buffering them.

“NO WONDER YOU LIKE THIS STUFF.”

“’s neat, right? i never thought i’d get to see it in real life. just in those old black and white textbooks. when we were on the surface for the first time, and toasted marshmallows, i looked, but… i didn’t really see. i looked at the empty parts, the vacuum, the bulk, and the stars, the galaxies, they didn’t quite… sink in, y’know?”

Sans looked embarrassed, and Papyrus was astonished at his expressiveness, a rare thing in a situation that was not going to get them both killed.

“i’m ramblin’.”

“RAMBLE AWAY, IT’S NICE TO SEE YOU SO ENTHUSIASTIC.”

Sans rammed another ketchup-dipped piece of bread into his mouth, and spoke with perfect clarity.

“our minds aren’t meant to handle distances like that, and it’s nuts, i don’t think we ever should if we wanna keep our marbles. i mean… picture a mile.”

It was one mile from their home to that bar Undyne liked, where her horrifying strength and muscular appearance ensured it was always ladies night for her, and thus, cheap drinks. That was easy.

“picture two miles.”

A walk there, and back. Usually carrying a plastered Undyne in tow. Simple enough.

“cool, cool. picture ten million.”

And Papyrus drew a blank. It was so large that it ceased to be a number, and instead became something to give up on at once. In his mind permeated an infinite, ceaseless black, he could not begin comprehend a number so grotesquely large. Ten million miles, ten million trips, ten million times spent dragging Undyne while she belted out the Monster national anthem.  

“y’can’t do it, right? so, humour me, say you can. what’s that one mile. one mile. walk that ten million times, and you got an answer to the other one. but you can’t. so it just sits there, and all you can do it go ‘shit that’s big’. that’s amazing to me. we’re born, we’ll die, the earth’ll die, and one day, that fuckoff group of stars and planets’ll die–”

Papyrus sat up at once, concern prickling at his chest, feeling something recursive and familiar come on that made him want to weep.

“– so there’s no point in gettin’ stressed, right? we’ll die, one day, ‘cause we’re out of the resets, and then, years and years from now, our descendants or whatever the fuck’ll kick the bucket too, and that’ll keep goin’ and goin’ and goin’, and thank god. time is movin’ forward. we aren’t in the underground, we aren’t stuck, we’re just up here, chillin’, eating a picnic while entropy slowly chews on our bones like a dog, and i could not be happier about it.”

His fears abated, and he let out a sigh he hadn’t known he had been retaining. Sans resumed his watch, his sentry work, eyes gliding from one star to another slowly, before working his way back. His hand was primed on the telescope. He flexed his fingers. He looked to Papyrus.

“d’you miss your arm?”

An obvious question with an obvious answer, but one that needed to be asked.

“NO.”

“really?”

_“NO,”_ Papyrus answered dryly.

“thought so.”

Papyrus poked at his broken arm with his digit, at the ragged edges that had never hung sore. As if they had always been there. Which, he supposed, they had. Slapping the living daylights out of timelines does that.

“I MISS RUNNING THE WAY I USED TO. YOUR ENTIRE CENTER OF GRAVITY IS THROWN OFF. IT’S NEVER BEEN QUITE THE SAME. OTHER PEOPLE HAVE IT FAR WORSE–”

“papyrus. if this bullshit has taught me anythin’, it’s that you ‘other people have it worse’ is not great. you have every right to grumble. dude. papyrus. dude. you’re missing an arm. you can be upset about that, y’know."

Something snapped. Gently, not in the way a tree does. In the way a twig in the mud does underfoot, on a wet day.

“I MISS RUNNING THE WAY I DID,” Papyrus said, and left it at that, with the silence between them. Tilting his head, Papyrus prodded in return. “WHAT’S IT LIKE SEEING WITH ONE EYE ALL THE TIME? ESPECIALLY AFTER BEING SO USED TO HAVING BOTH.”

“there’s an easy way to tell.”

“THERE IS?”

“ok, so open your eyes as wide as you can.”

Papyrus did, extending his sockets as wide as they could go. The thin, tapering light from the phone hit him from underneath, making him look like a dollar store prop.  

“now take your palm.”

Papyrus readied his palm, waiting to spring into action.

“put it over one of your eyes.”

Papyrus did, feeling somewhat of an anticlimax, and watching as everything shifted slightly to the left, just a tad, with only one eye for input.

“THIS… DOESN’T SEEM SO BAD,” Papyrus admitted.

“fair enough,” Sans responded, shrugging. “yo pap, catch this ketchup bottle, ‘n keep your eye squeezed shut.”

Sans tossed it in the most leisurely, casual arc possible, and Papyrus missed it after flailing vaguely in its direction.

“TH-THAT WAS MY BAD HAND!”

“you only have one of ‘em, it’s your good hand now.”

Papyrus shrugged, a little sheepish.

“my promising sporting career. ruined. impossible. now how will i play tennis for hours. can’t do it.”

“HAVE YOU EVER HELD A TENNIS RACQUET.”

“pfft, no.”

Sans chuckled, soft and subtle, barely there if you weren’t listening for it.

“’s not so bad. just means i gotta take life a little slower.”

“I’M SURE THAT PAINS YOU.”

“eats me up inside. gotta be careful walkin’, things like that. it helps to count steps.”

Papyrus squinted, before he realized, and he let out a loud ‘OHH!’ that echoed.

“I WAS WONDERING WHAT THAT WAS! YOU WERE COUNTING THE STEPS UP, SO YOU COULD MAKE YOUR WAY BACK DOWN WITHOUT WORRYING?”

“neat habit, huh? if i know how many i gotta take, i don’t need to stress. i don’t have to worry about rolling down like a log someone kicked down a hill. though, that would take less effort than walkin’–”

“DO NOT THROW YOURSELF DOWN THE HILL.”

The wind picked up, moving the grass from slow sways to jubilant waves, as if to say ‘hello’. Sans coated another slice of bread in ketchup, before dropping it with a soft ‘thwump’ onto the grass.

Papyrus watched him pick his ‘sandwich’ up, dust off the dirt, and eat the whole thing in one bite.

“I FEEL LIKE I SHOULD BE SCOLDING YOU FOR THIS, BUT AFTER EVERYTHING WE’VE BEEN THROUGH, THIS FEELS LIKE SUCH A NON-ISSUE NOW. THIS IS WEIRD.”

“i know what you mean. also, i ate your leftovers last night.”

“OH, NOW YOU’RE JUST PUSHING IT!”

Sans shrugged, suckling the last of the ketchup from his fingers. Papyrus looked out over the horizon, spying trees, and in the middle distance, small, box-like office buildings. He recognized the street. It was the street with the nice fruit shop, and the florist that always made the point to come out of her shop to talk to him. She was nice. He should buy her some flowers.

“EVERYTHING IS SO MUCH CHEAPER UP HERE,” Papyrus mused absently, “AND SINCE WE DON’T HAVE TO GO SCAVENGING AT THE DUMP, NONE OF OUR FURNITURE HAS MYSTERIOUS STAINS? ONE OF THOSE THINGS THAT YOU DON’T MISS UNTIL IT’S GONE. AND BY MISS I MEAN CELEBRATE, I NEVER WANT TO SEE A MYSTERIOUS STAIN AGAIN.”

“i’m gonna be real; i made like half of those and didn’t want to admit it.”

“AH. I WOULD ASK WHAT THEY ARE, BUT I THINK I’M BETTER OFF NOT KNOWING.”

“yup.”

“WE CAN GET ANYTHING! ANYTHING AT ALL,” Papyrus chirped, settling into a comfortable position on the grass, letting the wind thrum gently over his hollow abdomen, like a hand drifting softly back and forth.

“mmhmm.”

“HIP FASHIONS. FOOD. DRINKS. MORE HIP FASHIONS. FURNITURE. CONTEMPORARY STYLES.”

Sweet fruits, that he used to gorge on like candy.

“IT DOESN’T HAVE TO BE FRESH, EITHER! SO MANY ODD FOODS. LIKE PINEAPPLES? I STILL THINK THOSE ARE MADE UP.”

“you eat ‘em all the time.”

“BUT I’M STILL NOT SURE. APPLES, ORANGES, PEACHES–”

“ugh, i hate tinned peaches.”

Papyrus was hit with an uneasy wave of recollection, of half-memories, barely tasting the squish of chewed mittens in his mouth at the thought. Cotton, that he would suck on for comfort. That made his teeth grow in funny.

“THAT’S… UNDERSTANDABLE. WHAT ABOUT FRESH?”

“never had one.”

“YOU HAVEN’T HAD A FRESH PEACH IN ALL THIS TIME? WHAT HAPPENED!”

“never got around to it.”

“THAT’S IT. THAT’S IT. I’M MAKING YOU A COBBLER WHEN WE GET HOME.”

“it’s the middle of the night.”

“I DON’T CARE! YOU’RE GOING TO SIT DOWN, AND I’M GOING TO MAKE YOU– YOU DESERVE NICE THINGS AFTER– LOOK– I-I OWE YOU A PEACH COBBLER!”

“what is it with you and shovin’ cakes in people? you don’t have to–”

Debts, and debts, and debts, that a dessert wouldn’t begin to scratch the surface of, and that Sans would never try to claim back. Debts, that he would shoulder himself, and take the brunt of Papyrus’ ignorance. Starving, and drinking, and resets. Though Papyrus now had the benefit of understanding.

“S-SHUT UP AND LET ME CRAM YOU FULL OF SWEETS, DAMMIT!”

“’dammit’. you’re serious. i can’t argue with that.”

“WELL, I–”

“like, ‘dammit’, your language is out of fuckin’ control dude.”

Papyrus looked up at him silently, pleadingly, and Sans sighed before assuming the same position on the grass.

“PLEASE.”

Sans took a deep breath, and made a point to accept the gesture gracefully, with no protest, internal or otherwise.

“hey, uh… thanks, pappy.”

“DON’T MENTION IT.”

                                                                                

 

 

**Author's Note:**

> If you made it this far; hello! The Exchange is over a year old now, and I just wanted to express my gratitude. Thank you for reading and supporting me in my hobby and, ideally, future job. It means a lot to me ^^

**Works inspired by this one:**

  * [Hushabye Mountain](https://archiveofourown.org/works/8642461) by [Rehlia](https://archiveofourown.org/users/Rehlia/pseuds/Rehlia)




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